


Triumph

by Arlome



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, MFMM Flashfic Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27442360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: "“Phryne?”“Mhmm?”“Do you remember the Filch case?”Phryne raises her head from the open casefile on Jack’s desk and fixes him with a serious stare.“You mean the case where both you and I knew that the suspect is guilty but couldn’t get anything to stick?” she asks acerbically, and leans back in her seat, crossing her arms. “That case?”"A sequel toEnvy
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 80
Collections: Miss Fisher's Flashfic Challenge Heat 3





	Triumph

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt : Modern AU + blue, adorable, maddening.
> 
> same as before - illiterate man. I'm sorry if the writing makes little sense. It's nearly 2 am and I am tiiirreeddddd.
> 
> This is a sequel to [Envy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22800274/chapters/54487102#workskin) , a fic that deals with Phrack's secret relationship.

“Phryne?”

“Mhmm?”

“Do you remember the Filch case?”

Phryne raises her head from the open casefile on Jack’s desk and fixes him with a serious stare.

“You mean the case where both you and I knew that the suspect is guilty but couldn’t get anything to stick?” she asks acerbically, and leans back in her seat, crossing her arms. “That case?”

Jack sighs and rolls his lips together, nodding resignedly. It doesn’t take much to remember the frustrating feeling of knowing the truth but being unable to act, the utter despair at having to watch a serial killer walk free; of being completely impotent in the face of injustice. That damned case took its toll – on Phryne, most of all.

“Yes, that one,” he confirms and watches her avert her gaze from him, as if the sad outcome of the whole sorry affair was her fault.

It wasn’t.

“Why do you ask?”

Jack sneaks a glance at his computer screen and winces; his open email box is staring back at him, demanding his undivided attention.

“The commissioner wrote to me,” he says, his voice resigned. “He was contacted by the Scotland Yard. They’re asking for our help, Phryne.”

She looks up at him; her face is carefully blank, but her expressive eyes are telling him everything he needs to know.

“Why?” she asks, even though she must already know the answer.

Jack locks his fingers over his lap and shrugs. He hates doing this to her; abhors bringing back memories that remind her of their failure. Memories that remind her of –

He shakes himself mentally; that piece of history is not something he can change. He’s a good cop, he knows it – everybody does – and he’s competent and resourceful, and generally shockingly successful in putting the evil bastards away, but bringing back the dead is definitely above his paygrade. He hates the feeling of crippled helplessness in the face of Phryne’s demons, loathes that he cannot provide the needed answers for her peace of mind, knows without a doubt that it’s not something she’ll ever ask of him.

No, necromancy may not be a part of his skillset, but damn good sleuthing certainly is. And that’s something they do particularly well together.

With that knowledge tucked safely behind his breastbone, Jack gives Phryne a levelled look.

“Because, nobody knows the insides of this case better than you and I.” Then, much more quietly, much more softly, he adds, “this is our chance to stop him once and for all, Phryne.”

She bites at her lower lip, looks up to the ceiling. Jack thinks he can see some reluctant moisture in the corner of her eye.

“How many?”

“Four, so far,” he sighs, knowing exactly what it is she is asking him. Phryne shakes her head.

“Fuck,” she whispers. After a moment, she springs to her feet and makes her way to his window, narrowing her eyes at rainy Melbourne.

“Alright,” she concedes, and Jack allows himself a sad smile - as if there was ever a chance of her not offering her help. “When do we leave?” 

***

Phryne insists on getting them first-class tickets, and even though Jack tries to put up a fight, she puts a stop to it quite effortlessly. All it takes is the press of her naked body against his, the slow blink of her blue eyes, the adorable pout of her ox-blood lips.

“Indulge me, Jack,” she sighs and plants a kiss on his bare shoulder, “I finally get to have you all to myself for more than a few fleeting hours, and I’d like to do it with enough leg-room .”

He laughs and kisses her hair fondly. Maddening woman.

“Alright,” he concedes, “but I’m paying for my own ticket.”

He might have to tighten his belt a bit for the next few months, but the eager smile on her face is more than worth the sacrifice.

“We can join the mile-high club, Jack,” she purrs enticingly, her smile turning wicked. He appreciates her not fussing over his insistence regarding the ticket fare.

“Hmmmm. I always wanted to get arrested for fucking in an aeroplane bathroom.”

“And now you can!”

He laughs again and presses her tighter to him, her body warm and soft and boneless after lovemaking.

“And now I can.”

***

London is wet and cold and rather miserable, and no amount of Shakespeare at the Globe can make him love the dreary city. He’s wearing more layers than he can count, his nose is stuffed, and his ears keep freezing, but Phryne’s excitement at showing him around makes him swallow his complaints. She’s sharper than ever, determined to put the ghosts of failure to eternal rest – preferably following a bloody battle – and that, coupled with her delight at dragging him from museum to museum, makes for a heady combination. He’s lost in her – utterly, utterly lost – and he’s quite content with never being found again.

They spend their days at the Scotland Yard HQ, working hard. It helps that the operation is being run under the radar; the worst thing they can do is to somehow notify Filch of their presence in London. He’s an elusive bastard – cunning, smart – and he escaped justice once before; they won’t let there be a second time.

They spend their nights at their hotel room, entwined in every sense of the word. And it’s good – it’s so good – and liberating; the thought of being able to kiss and touch without repercussion is rather intoxicating. Jack has no idea what they’ll do when they get back to Melbourne.

He dares to whisper a soft confession into her hair when he’s sure she’s asleep. The intimacy between them is strong and growing, but he doesn’t wish to scare her off. Phryne has a complicated relationship with commitment, and it makes him anxious to bare his heart. He suspects she knows, though; it’s not like he’s subtle.

She stretches in his arms, presses her breasts into his ribs and mumbles a soft ‘ _me too’_ against his nipple. He stays awake for the remainder of the night.

***

They catch the bastard five weeks into their stay in London.

It’s done efficiently with maximum resources and no lives lost. When Filtch catches sight of the two Aussie detectives he blanches with ill-repressed rage. Phryne flips him the bird to the mortification of the Inspector in charge; Jack tries hard to drown his inappropriate laughter in a violent coughing fit.

Phryne turns to him with a bright, easy smile; her eyes clear for the first time in months.

“Well, that’s done, then. Back to Melbs?”

He hides his hands in her coat pockets and tugs her towards him.

“Back to sneaking around, you mean.”

Phryne rises on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips, making the constables on the scene collectively blush and look away.

“I intend to do no such thing,” she replies haughtily, her best ‘I’m related to British Royalty’ tone activated. Jack huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Phryne, the commissioner – “

“The commissioner has just been congratulated by the Scotland Yard on a job well done, Detective Inspector,” she interrupts him by pocking him in his rather layered chest, “I’m sure he can make a concession for the heroes of the hour.”

Jack can’t help but give her his barely-there smirk. She’s incorrigible and he adores her for it.

“Is that what we are,” he huffs, indulging her.

Phryne smiles assuredly, her teeth gleaming even in the overall grey of London.

“No more stealth-fucking for us, Jack.”

He laughs so loud he makes the nearest constable start and drop his truncheon to the ground.

The future suddenly seems impossibly bright.


End file.
